


To Break a Fever

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Incubus Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Werecreature Stiles, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: It’s rare that someone actually catches his eye, that someone actually makes him want to do more thanobserve, but occasionally it happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks go to [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/), who beta-read this story.

  
  
  


  
_What a lovely way to burn._

\- Peggy Lee 

  
  


 

Derek observes the amber liquid that swirls in his glass. The whiskey is laced with wolfsbane and leaves a pleasant burn in his throat. It’s relaxing to watch and infinitely more relaxing to drink.

The club is packed.

There’s an extensive bar area where people sit and stand in little groups, trying to make themselves heard over the music. Derek sits at the counter and ignores their chatter, the many conversations that bleed into one another. He’s content with observing the people on the dance floor. Some are already more inebriated than anyone should be at eleven-thirty on a Friday night. Others have just begun to forget the stressful week that lies behind them. There are the solitary dancers who react with disdain when someone breaches their space. Others are plastered all over each other, grinding and pressing against their person of choice, hoping not to spend the night alone. To a werewolf’s fine senses, the air is heavy with the scent of perspiration and arousal, with the fumes of alcohol and the odor of less than legal drugs.

If it weren’t for one minor detail, the club would be indistinguishable from the many others that the city has to offer.

The minor detail being, of course, that no one here is exactly human.

Just by scent Derek can tell that there are some shapeshifters present. Witches as well. Those are always pretty easy to pick out in a crowd; there is a faint tingle of magic around them, like traces of itching powder that makes Derek want to sneeze. One bartender wears a Red Bull t-shirt and sports impressive horns, and just a moment ago, Derek saw someone with reptile eyes and scales slink towards the restrooms. Derek can’t immediately place most of the patrons though. It’s different from Beacon Hills, where the members of his family were practically the only supernatural beings in a wide radius.

It’s rare that someone actually catches his eye, that someone actually makes him want to do more than _observe_ , but occasionally it happens.

Like right now.

A guy walks by and Derek feels an _oh_ get stuck in his throat. That has to be the most – the most – _fuckable_ guy he’s ever seen. He looks striking; tall and fit, pale skin and hair the softest, warmest color of melting chocolate. His shirt looks as if someone _poured_ it on him, and his low-slung jeans reveal a sliver of skin. Derek finds it excessively hard to pull his gaze away.

“That one is trouble,” his neighbor sighs. She eyes the guy with a mix of resignation and fondness.

Derek makes an affirming sound and redirects his attention towards his drink again. Which doesn’t help, because the guy appears next to him a few minutes later, loosely brushing his arm and ordering a drink from a bartender. The brief body contact shocks Derek like an electric current. And it’s even worse when a whiff of the stranger’s scent hits his system and he feels his eyes flicker golden. Derek has never come across such a delicious scent before. God. He wants to bury his nose in it and just breathe it in. It’s _heavenly_.

He doesn’t dare to draw another breath until the guy is gone again. The little brat jumped in line and takes his drink away like a prized prey.

His scent is like a _drug_.

“It really is,” the woman to his left says. “Quite literally, actually.”

Derek whips around, startled. He inclines his head in confusion.

His neighbor winces. “Sorry! Telepath. Didn’t mean to pry.”

The woman is in her forties; her jet-black hair is pulled into some sort of an elegant bun and her lips are painted bright red, an accent of brilliant color on her face. It reminds Derek of blood, of a fresh kill. She looks like she eats lesser beings for breakfast.

She laughs. “Correct again. I’m a lawyer.”

“I thought you didn’t mean to pry,” Derek says and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I can’t really turn it off.” She looks distressed for a brief moment.

“Well. I bet it has its useful moments,” Derek offers tentatively.

She snorts. “You can bet your ass it has. If you ever need a lawyer, you should call me. Negotiations are so much easier when you know _exactly_ what other people don’t want you to ask.” She grins in a way that showcases her canines and angles for something in her purse. She gives Derek a business card made out of a thin, light sheet of metal. It reads, _Chloe V. Ngyuen, Attorney & Counselor At Law._

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.” Derek clears his throat, trying to hide how unsettled she makes him. It’s in all likelihood a futile effort. He nods towards the newcomer guy. “Do you know what exactly… he is?” It’s a rude question to ask, no doubt, but Derek _needs_ to know.

“Ah, of course.” Chloe smiles. “He’s an incubus.”

“ _An Incubus?_ Really?”

She chuckles. “Yeah. It’s no wonder you haven’t met one before. Incubi are rare, and that’s a good thing if you ask me.”

Chloe’s gaze follows the incubus, who’s floating in a sea of moving people, in the midst of the dance floor, and occasionally dances in tune with someone. His movements are liquid and sensuous, and he seems to attract his fair share of helpless admiration. That and lingering hands. Derek wonders what he’s looking for. Just a dance partner? _Nourishment?_ Being an incubus, he most likely feeds off – what, arousal, sexual energy? Orgasms? Derek has no idea, but he reckons the incubus could go home with any person he chooses. Any at all.

Against all hope, Derek hopes _he_ gets picked.

By chance, the incubus looks in his direction in that _very_ moment and meets Derek’s eyes across the room. He looks puzzled, questioning. Searching. His attention runs through Derek like a _jolt_ of cackling electricity. _God._ He wonders if the incubus can feel that as well. His wolf is more than interested, all instincts urging Derek to head to the incubus. To draw him close. To grind against him. Deep bass reverberates through the club, the music heavy and primal like a thrumming heartbeat, and for a moment, Derek wonders what it would be like to press a kiss into that graceful neck, to rake his fingers through the incubus’ hair and hold him in place while he pounds into him.

 _To claim him_ , in front of everyone.

He shuts that thought down quickly.

…but not quickly enough.

Because his cock strains against the material of his pants. Throbbing. _Rock-hard._ Heat rises in Derek’s cheeks. It’s been ages since he sported a boner of this magnitude in public. At least he’s sitting and has the counter to hide behind.

He awkwardly folds his hands in his lap.

Drawing his attention away from the incubus goes against every single one of his instincts. It’s almost physically _painful_ , but he does it because, _goddamn_ , he’s not a teenaged werewolf grappling for control. He’s better than this. When he feel less shaky, less affected, he turns to Chloe with a sheepish smile. “You seem to be familiar with incubi. Are they… better avoided?”

She studies him for a moment. Derek tries not to squirm, but that’s a difficult endeavor when he feels as if he’s stripped to the soul and put on display. “That depends on what you want from them,” Chloe says. “They’re not generally malicious, at least not more than any other people.”

Derek nods thoughtfully. “Good to know. Thanks.”

He finishes his drink and the bartender slides another wolfsbane whiskey his way. Out of the corner of his eyes, he keeps observing the incubus, who dances and talks to people and behaves pretty ordinarily, all in all.

And who leaves with a guy _and_ a girl, arms slung across both of their shoulders.

Derek tries to smother the annoyance that rises quick like forest fire in him. His wolf is restless and unhappy. He didn’t _honestly_ think the incubus would pick him and take him home, did he? That would have been some misplaced hope. Derek knows that he looks like some people’s version of a wet dream, but he’s usually good enough at radiating an aura of gloomy despair to dispel any overt interest in him. Yeah, this was _never_ about to happen.

Next to him, Chloe wrinkles her nose as if she smells curdled milk or something equally distasteful. “I’m sorry, honey, but I don’t think I can deal with this much self-loathing right now. I work with corporate lawyers all day. This is supposed to be my night off.” She pats Derek’s shoulder. “May your soul forget your sorrow.” And with that, she heads to the other side of the bar area.

Derek sighs and hangs his head a bit lower.

He should keep in mind that incubi are best avoided.

Trouble.

Definitively trouble.  
  
  


*

 

That night, Derek _dreams_.

The sheets cling to his skin when he wakes up and his sleep-addled brain needs some moments to realize that he is rutting against the mattress with sharp, insistent thrusts. Groaning, he rolls on his back and presses his hands flat against the bed. Exhales. Inhales. Tries to calm himself. He feels too hot, almost feverish; his breathing is ragged and his heartbeat rabbit-quick.

He remembers some fragments of the dream – smooth, unmarked skin; half-lidded eyes; a hint of amber irises. He remembers the sinuous line of the incubus’s back and the swell of that round, perky ass under his hands. Remembers the way the incubus _writhed_ against him, _pushed_ back against him, _fucked_ himself on Derek’s cock. Remembers how it felt to be fully engulfed in the throbbing heat of his ass, the ring of muscles swallowing his aching erection again and again and _again_ , twitching and flexing as if trying to draw him in deeper. Such a greedy little hole, never satisfied. Not even when it’s choking on dick.

Derek whines and squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s _agony_.

The need to _have_ the incubus burns under his skin. Derek quickly jerks himself off, rough and angry with himself. When his come hits his abdomen in hot, pearly spurts, the relief he feels is _mind-numbing_. Like fog before the rising sun, the pain fades away. 

It’s the first dream he ever has of the incubus.

It’s far from the last one.  
  
  


*

 

Derek spends his days working. Well, occasionally. When he feels like it. He has a few jobs that aren’t too demanding. He works for a removal company when he is in the mood for some mind-numbing activity, for heavy hauling and lifting and the easy feeling of accomplishment that goes along with it. He works at Enrique’s Garage when one of Enrique’s mechanics gets sick. He likes that, too. He was always good with cars. Used to dream of owning a muscle car, something sleek and speedy. His dreams were simple and stupid once upon a time.

There are a couple of other odd jobs he does now and then, but Derek mostly lives off his family’s insurance money. He likes that he doesn’t have a nine-to-five job where he’s surrounded by the same people every day, people who’ll inevitably want to get to know him. His temporary colleagues have learned by now that he is not one for small talk, and to be fair, most of them aren’t either.

Derek fills his days with reading, with working out. With walking the city, because the wolf under his skin is restless and wants to roam, wants to acquaint and reacquaint himself with this strange place that’s so far from his territory. 

Some supernatural beings follow humans anywhere they go, drawn by the thick concentration of humanity. Closer to them than shadows. But werewolves aren’t like that, have never been. And yet, Derek likes drifting through the crowds, likes letting himself pulled in the same direction that other people go. Maybe he longs to be a part of something, no matter how tangentially.

By now, _home_ is a concept that’s entirely abstract to him.  
  
  


*

 

Another dream, relentless and scorching. Another fever.

Derek dreams of the incubus sitting on his lap, dreams of muscular thighs pressed against his own, bracketing them. Dreams of fingernails that dig into his shoulders, moaned curses and _fucks_ , as the incubus bounces up and down on the length of Derek’s dick. Dreams that the incubus’s skin is flushed and coated in a glistening sheen of sweat. Dreams that the incubus throws his head back as he comes, exposing the long lines of his throat.

Dreams of sinking his canines into the soft flesh. Not to hurt. Not to tear apart.

To claim.

_To make._

Derek remembers that image, and the feeling that came with it, as he comes with a pained sounding groan.

The fever recedes gradually, washed away by aftermath of his pleasure. By now Derek knows it’s like a wave pulling back to gather strength, readying itself to crash against him again.

There’s no escaping the force behind it.  
  
  


*

 

Their house in Beacon Hills was a sanctuary, hidden away deep in the Preserve. Derek remembers the scent of pine trees, the dappled pattern of lights and shadows on the forest floor. Remembers how their individual scents came together, blending to a unit, like the sound of individual instruments building up to a soaring symphony. Something greater than the individual parts. Greater even than a family.

A pack.

The city is the exact opposite of Beacon Hills. So loud that Derek can’t hear his thoughts, so flooded with people that each scent is superimposed by a hundred others.

The city is concrete and glass and metal, and even the few residues of nature are artificial here, carefully cultured to resemble the real thing.

It’s a good place to get lost in.

One day, on his way to one of his jobs, Derek stops dead in his tracks when he recognizes the faint scent trail in the air. It’s the _incubus_. He came this way, not too long ago. This time around the scent doesn’t scream sex. It doesn’t make Derek pop a boner in the middle of a lively sidewalk, thank god. But it smells pleasant, like sunshine at the tail end of summer, like honey, like _home_.

Derek scrunches his eyes shut and forces himself to _keep_ going. He’s not the kind of guy who would track down a stranger in a city of millions. He’s not – repeat, _not_ – a goddamn stalker.  
  
  


*

 

Derek dreams of the incubus again and again and again. He hasn’t come this often and this hard since he was a teenager, nor as embarrassingly quickly.

He dreams of a hot mouth and clever eyes, of hair soft and bed-tousled, of a stark and beautiful bite mark.

Dreams of making the incubus _his_.

He’s in the grip of a fever at night, a fever that scorches him inside and out. It consumes him, and leaves him raw and wanting. Maybe he should feel terrified, alarmed, afraid – but truth to be told, he welcomes that he has something _different_ to think about and feel for once.  
  
  


*

 

The amber liquid swirls in his glass, gently, flickering like copper. Derek can feel the music in his bones, the heavy bass line that connects him with everyone else in the club, that keeps him tethered.

Once again, Derek occupies his old spot at the bar.

He waits for the incubus to show up.

Because he just had the brilliant idea that there’s maybe only one efficient way to break a fever.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> This is one of the first stories I’ve ever written in the Teen wolf fandom. You could call it a homage to trilliath’s _The Sundering Kiss_ , one of the best best _best_ stories on AO3, but I know there’s really no comparison in terms of depth and quality. Everyone go read that story if you haven't already!


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